


Playing with Fyre

by freyjawriter24



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, agnes nutter only specified fire not water, an eternity in the deepest pit, let's find out..., what if Aziraphale was thrown into the deepest pit of Hell as Crowley instead of the holy water bath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: Agnes Nutter mentioned fire. Thing is, she never mentioned holy water. Because there wasn’t any.-----AU in which the swap doesn’t quite go off as planned – instead of having a nice relaxing bath and scaring the demons to death, Aziraphale is trapped in Hell in Crowley’s corporation, and somehow has to get out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. Trial by Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I finally wrote a Good Omens fic that isn’t named after or based on Hozier lyrics!
> 
> Seriously though, I love this concept and I’ve been thinking about it for a long while (and then I stayed up late watching The Impossible Planet/The Satan Pit two-parter Doctor Who episodes and was Inspired) so I’m pleased I finally got my act together to write this. I hope you like my version.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter – for the pun-lovers – was ‘Firely Judged’. (No, I cannot think of puns to save my life. I had to look this up.)

Prophecy 5004:  
_When alle is fayed and all is done ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre._

\-----

The echoes of a far-off announcement slouched down the hall like shadows, slow and creeping, only muffled reflections of what was being said in the room beyond.

It was clear what their meaning was, though. They were declaring the start of the first trial in Hell – at least for centuries, even millennia, perhaps ever. Crowley couldn’t remember having heard of one actually happening before.

Then a shout went up, and those words were loud and clear.

“Bring in the traitor!” Beelzebub yelled.

_Here goes nothing._

The lights flickered ominously as Crowley’s corporation made its way down the corridor, flanked by two guards who were making the most of their new roles, enjoying the outfits and the sense of power over this once high-ranking demon. _The Golden Boy of Hell. The Serpent in the Garden. The Architect of the Spanish Inquisition._ Brought down to this – trial, humiliation, and pain. This was the most fun they’d had all millennium.

The hallway opened out into a large chamber, just as damp and dimly lit as the corridor had been. On one side was a grimy screen, behind which all the denizens of Hell were crowded, pushing up against one another to watch. On the other was a series of wide steps, staggering the room upwards – to show layers of power, perhaps. Here there were three chairs, almost thrones, and three arch-demons to sit in them.

Not that they called themselves that, though, of course. Lords and Dukes and Princes of Hell, that’s what they were. Not arch-demons. No, not at all.

The prisoner was brought to stand directly in front of the central and highest of the three thrones, turned so that the rest of Hell was at his back, leering and jeering at him from behind.

The greasy rope bit into the skin of the wrists of Crowley’s corporation, tied tighter than strictly necessary. _Well then. Introductions. Here we go. Act cool._

“Hey, guys. Nice place you got here.”

“Not for you, it won’t be,” Hastur said pointedly.

“Could do with some house plants. Maybe a coffee table.”

“Silenzzz!” Beelzebub called. “The prisoner should approach.”

“Love to.”

There was a slight pause as he stepped forwards, the four celestial beings completing a little upwards-slanting diamond that he was the lowest point of. _Curious that height should still be an indicator of power around here, really_ , he thought. _It should be the opposite to Heaven, shouldn’t it? You’d think that the lower down you were – the deeper into Hell – the more powerful you’d be._

_Then again... maybe that is the case right now. I’ve got – what is that phrase? The aces up my sleeve._

“So, the four of us,” he said to fill the silence. “Rubber of bridge? Barbershop quartet?”

“The trial of a traitor?” the Prince of Hell quipped back, showing off their fly-coloured smile in a ghoulish grin.

_Fair enough. Time for some fun, then._

“Lord Beelzebub, you are...?” He left space for them to fill, as if it wasn’t clear what exactly this set-up was all about.

The silence hung for a beat too long, Beelzebub’s flies hovering uncertainly. Then –

“I’m the judge,” they said exasperatedly.

“And I’m the prosecutor,” Hastur added, unholy relish in his eyes.

The prisoner looked over at the other of the three expectantly. A pair of fish eyes stared back, equally unsettling.

“And so Dagon here is defending me?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” the named Lord of Hell said calmly. “No, I’m just here in case there’s anything you’ve done that they’ve forgot.”

“We’ve built this place for you specially,” Beelzebub cut in. “It shall be you place of trial. And it shall be your place of punishment.”

That wasn’t quite true. The room had existed for millennia, as far as Crowley was aware, built in case the rebels experienced any further rebellion in the early days. It did look, however, as if there’d been some work done recently, judging by the demon’s recollection of what it had originally looked like. It was bigger now, for a start, and that viewing area had been added on. But it still wasn’t _new_.

Plus, the punishment part wasn’t exactly right either. They might _attempt_ to exact pain and extinction on him, but it certainly wasn’t going to go the way they expected. Not a lie, then, but still not the truth.

“Guys,” the prisoner said, feigning an emotional reaction. “You shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble.”

Now that certainly _was_ true.

\-----

Heaven was huge and open and devoid and bleak.

It wasn’t cold, exactly. It should have been, really – office block with too much air conditioning, wide open spaces and high ceilings where the heat could vanish – but then it was also supposedly representative of paradise, and inhabited by powerful beings that could change their environment to suit their comfort. So it was actually the perfect temperature, that nice point where you don’t actually notice it at all. But it _looked_ like it should have been cold, and that was the thing. It was... unsettling.

Hell of a – well, _Heaven_ – of a view, though. All of humanity’s biggest, grandest achievements of the architectural variety, brilliantly on display outside those massive windows. Shame he wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy it properly.

Aziraphale’s corporation was sat in a chair, bound to it at the wrists with soft, strong white rope. He gently tested the limits of it as the small cluster of angels before him watched with bored indifference. _Nope. No way out here that way. Still, that won’t be necessary._

“Ah, Aziraphale,” a voice said from behind. The prisoner had to fight to keep his expression neutral at the sound. _Gabriel._

A too-firm hand thumped onto his shoulder as the archangel swept past. “ _So_ glad you could join us.”

Aziraphale’s face twitched into a small smile for a second. “You could have just sent a message,” he said primly. “I mean, a kidnapping, in broad daylight...”

“Call it what it was: an extraordinary rendition,” Gabriel said, somehow already inches from snapping. He gave a short, mirthless chuckle. “Now, have we heard from our new associate?”

“He’s on his way,” Uriel said calmly from just behind Gabriel’s shoulder.

Gabriel raised his fists in not-at-all-concealed triumph. His eyes were wilder, somehow, than usual, perhaps a deeper shade of violet, and his hair oddly loose, ever so slightly out of place, not quite set in its normal easy perfection.

“He’s on his way,” the purple-eyed archangel repeated, sharply joyful. He strode forward towards where the Principality’s corporation was bound in place. “I think you’re gonna like this. I really do.” He bent down, looming over the prisoner. “And I bet you didn’t see this one coming.”

_No, I didn’t_ , he thought with a slight internal smirk. _But the humans did. You never did give them enough credit, you fucker._

Outwardly, he merely raised his eyebrows slightly in polite agreement. _Oh, of course. I’m surprised about this, you can see it written all over my face. You idiot._

The group of them remained still, waiting in silence, for several moments. Time didn’t particularly mean as much to celestial beings who, generally speaking, had an ample amount of it to do as they liked. But all the same, it did seem to drag on a bit up here. _How long is this going to take? I’ve got things to do, people to see. Well, one person, anyway._

Eventually Gabriel’s steadily darkening face brightened, and an instant later the prisoner heard a voice he recognised call out from behind him.

“You don’t get this view down in the basement.”

Aziraphale’s corporations remained fixed in place, but the being inside looked slightly to the left, to the sinister appearance beside him. _Eric. Hi mate, fancy seeing you here._

The disposable demon threw the contents of whatever container it was that he was holding into a little stone ring that the angels had put in together. Instantly, a tornado of hellfire rose up from the makeshift fireplace, and the three archangels and Sandalphon instinctively – or with something like instinct, anyway – took several steps back.

The prisoner looked up at the towering inferno, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, carefully judging it. _Looks warm. Should be a nice cleanse. Haven’t done that in a while._

Gabriel stepped forward again. “So, with one act of treason, you averted the war.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, and words began to spill forward. “Well, I think the greater good –”

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine.” _Yes, he is, actually. Don’t speak to him like that. If I wasn’t acting to save both our lives right now, I’d –_ “I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel.” _Don’t I know it. Shut the Heaven up, dickhead._ [1]

He didn’t. “The greater good was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all.” _Yep. And we stopped you. Wanker._

Uriel stepped forward, past Gabriel and straight up to the prisoner’s chair. With a small miracle, they yanked away the soft ropes binding Aziraphale’s corporation in place. “Up.”

_In my own time, thank you very much._ The Principality’s arms were stretched, shaken out, and his clothes smoothed before he stood. Then he adjusted himself again, as in-character as possible, straightening his coat into place and tweaking his bow tie. _Be more Aziraphale. They have to believe you on this._

“I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider?” he asked, plastering a fake smile over his face to hide the real one. Then he glanced at the fire before him and felt an echo of Aziraphale’s real indignance sweep over him. “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Well, for _Heaven’s_ sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors.” _Yeah, I know. You did it to me last time, you bastards._ “So... into the flame.”

There was nothing more. The four of them stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching, waiting. They weren’t even actually going to force him. He was supposed to just walk in there himself. And the worst part was, they knew he’d do it.

_Fucking... How dare they – No, stay calm. Just a little longer, just a tiny bit more._

Aziraphale’s corporation took a breath, trying to look nervous. He stared at the fire, and began to walk towards it. The heat grew on his face – it would never be uncomfortable, he knew, but still. There was an... ominousness to it, all the same.

He paused a step or two away. “Right.” _One last try, one last chance for them to be at least a little sorry for this. One last moment of me being the most Aziraphale I can be, before they all run screaming and don’t care anymore._

“Well... lovely knowing you all,” he said, attempting to put some optimism in his voice. “May we meet on a better occasion.”

Gabriel snapped. “Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

_You... How DARE you? How dare you talk to him like that, you piece of filth. I will rip the feathers from your wings, one by one, and burn every last bit of celestial essence out of you piece by piece and record your screams on cassette so I can listen to it in the Bentley and enjoy the beauty of you slowly being warped into that thing you hate the most – decent fucking Earth music – you sick, horrific, repulsive... bad angel._

Aziraphale’s face showed none of this, only a slight smouldering fury that would only have been noticed by the being who knew him best, or even if it had been would have been put down to a trick of the demonic light. It wasn’t the kind of emotion Aziraphale was capable of having.

But Crowley was.

He forced himself to smile slightly. He looked at the fire. Flicked one more look back at Gabriel. Then stepped forward into the blaze.

Nothing happened.

Well, not quite true. Aziraphale’s corporation was engulfed in flame, true, but it was only the demonic sort. It didn’t so much as singe his clothes. Crowley sighed contentedly, feeling the gentle flames warm him through, lick up around his current corporation’s skin, burn through its fingers. He cracked Aziraphale’s neck, then opened his eyes and fixed a stare on the archangels.

Outside of the fire, Gabriel’s wince slowly transformed to confusion, then horror. Michael’s mouth dropped open, and Uriel and Sandalphon exchanged looks.

_Come on, then. Let’s make this fun._

He opened his mouth, and roared a plume of hellfire straight at the gathered ethereal beings. Their looks of shock and terror were priceless as they ran backwards, arms out to each other, frightened and uncertain.

“It... may be worse than we thought,” Gabriel said shakily.

Crowley smiled through Aziraphale’s mouth, wishing he could add a few pointed teeth or his snake’s tongue into the mix right about now. But the desired effect was there nonetheless.

They let him safely out of Heaven rather quickly, after that.

\-----

“Creatures of Hell!” Beelzebub called. “You have heard the evidence against the demon known as Crowley. What is your verdict?”

The murky figures behind the glass all began to chant in unison. “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” The prisoner wondered vaguely how many times they’d rehearsed that.

The Prince of Hell turned their attention to the bound being in front of them. “Do you have anything to say before we take our vengeance on you?”

Crowley’s corporation looked around from behind those dark glasses, and the being behind them watched the faces of the three not-arch-demons before him. _They won’t be finding this so enjoyable in a minute. That’s going to be rather fun._

He shrugged loosely in a non-committal gesture. “What’s it to be? An eternity in the deepest pit?”

“Pretty much,” said Beelzebub, a bright demonic glint in their eyes.

_Wait, what?_

“But not only that,” Hastur said, a greasy grin spreading slowly over his face. “Torture, too. And we’ve got some help in that department.”

An angel the prisoner had never seen before walked delicately into the room, a wide white tray held between their perfectly clean hands.

A million thoughts were racing through the prisoner’s mind. _No, wait, that’s... it’s not holy water. Why isn’t it holy water? What are they...?_

“Holy weapons,” Beelzebub said darkly. “Specially made, just for you.”

The angel stepped closer, a thinly-veiled look of disgust on their face, and lowered their hands to show off what they were carrying. On the tray were a pair of small, sharp silver daggers, laid beside a thick cream leather glove.

“They’re consecrated,” Dagon added, explaining with relish. “So they’ll burn as they touch you. Burning metal against your skin. Oh, but they’re weapons, so if we stab you with them, we can make it burn inside of you too.”

Crowley’s corporation suddenly felt very ill, something it was not prone to do as the corporation of a celestial being. The being currently struggling to hold it together gasped slightly in horror, and the demons both in front of and behind the viewing screen grinned and laughed in excitement.

“Shall we test it?” Dagon asked.

_Oh, no._ Holy weapons or not, stabbing would still hurt. Badly. _Please, no. Please, God, no. This isn’t what we’d planned for. This isn’t..._

Hastur stepped forwards towards the unknown angel. They didn’t flinch, looking instead rather disdainful of having been sent down here at all.

The Duke of Hell gingerly poked the flat of one of the daggers with a finger, barely touching it. “Ooh, hot,” he said, shaking his hand a little to get rid of the apparent burning sensation. “I wonder what it feels like on the inside?”

He picked up the glove – glared at the angel who had brought it, for daring to make him wear something so obviously angelic – put it on, and picked up a dagger.

“Can’t feel a thing with this on,” he said cheerily. Then he turned and plunged the dagger into the tail of the Usher of Hell.

There was an unholy shriek of pain. The prisoner winced slightly at the sound, and tried to turn it into something either sarcastic or nonchalant, failing at both. Beelzebub watched him, grinning.

The Usher writhed on the floor, dagger still stuck deep, screams still tearing from inside his reptilian throat. After a moment, Hastur pulled the dagger out again. The cries of pain subsided a little, but the Usher was clearly still feeling a burning sensation deep beneath the skin. Hastur looked satisfied.

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub called out. “I sentence you to six thousand years in the pits of Hell. In addition, you will be subjected to torture by holy weapon for the duration of your imprisonment, as and when we please. Do you have anything to say?”

“Uh, well...” He’d been going to say something cool and unconcerned about taking his jacket off, but that seemed pitiful now. They were actually going to _stab_ him. “No, not really.”

“I do,” said Hastur. “I want the first go.”

Beelzebub gave a long-suffering sigh, then nodded. “Duke Hastur gets the first shift torturing.” A chorus of noise started up from behind the screen, but the Prince of Hell shouted over the top. “Don’t worry, you’ll all get a turn! We do have six thousand _years_ to deal with him.”

They turned to the guards that had brought the prisoner in. “Throw him in the pit. He can stand to wait a while and think about what’s coming to him.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. So he let himself be dragged off, still bound, to the deepest, darkest pit of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Gabriel was rather talented at interrupting people, and often used his skill to interrupt their thoughts as well as their spoken words. A certain young woman two thousand or so years ago could in particular attest to this. He exercised it rarely but with great effect. Often – especially in recent centuries – it was mainly to establish power rather than for more angelic purposes (had a certain Principality had this knack, it might have rather appropriately yet ironically been put to use to stop anxious people’s thoughts spiralling out of control). To most people, it was merely an irritation. To a demon already considering archangelicide, it was infuriating. [return to text]


	2. Eurydice’s Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orpheus had a plan to rescue his beloved from Hades, but he tripped at the final hurdle and she was lost. But even in the darkest of night, even when we can’t actually see the stars, we know they’re there. Even when the way ahead is unclear, we keep moving. Even when it appears all is lost, there is still hope. Because even though Orpheus failed, there’s another chance. Sometimes it’s up to the maiden to save herself.
> 
> Until recently, we’ve never told that story from the other half’s perspective.
> 
> This is for Eurydice.

Crowley wasn’t surprised to be the first one back. Heaven hadn’t had a trial, after all, and whatever could be said about Hell (and there was an _awful_ lot you could say), at least Crowley knew there’d be a trial. They’d had a whole room built for the purpose millennia ago, after all, so why wouldn’t they use it when they finally got the chance?

After a while of absently scrolling through his phone and furtively glancing around from behind the shield of his sunglasses, though, he began to worry. _Why isn’t he back yet?_

He kept waiting. Lunchtime arrived. Crowley had planned on taking Aziraphale to the Ritz to celebrate their successful outsmarting of Heaven and Hell, but the demon was now having the terrifying creeping realisation that that may not be the case. _Have they figured it out?_

_No,_ he told himself, _they couldn’t have_. They would have come and found him immediately, doused him in holy water and have done with it. So they didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

_Focus on that, Crowley. No news is good news._ It didn’t much help.

Lunchtime snuck past, turning firmly into afternoon. They couldn’t possibly be _deliberating_ , could they? After all, he _had_ killed Ligur. Hastur would want revenge for that, at least. Then why...?

_Maybe... No._ The angel did like to waffle on a bit, but Hell would definitely have cut him off after about thirty seconds if it didn’t seem to be going anywhere, so Aziraphale couldn’t still be trying to talk his way out of punishment or something. Which he wouldn’t be doing anyway – he was too smart for that, knew it would be far safer to just accept the sentence, defy all logic in surviving it, and get out of there as quickly as possible. _So what’s taking so long?_

Three o’clock turned into four, and still Crowley waited, getting increasingly anxious by the minute. The trial _must_ be over by now, he thought – perhaps, somehow, Aziraphale had gotten back to Earth and become side-tracked or distracted or... maybe being in Hell had got to him? And so he’d gone elsewhere for a while to calm down? It was desperate thinking, Crowley knew, and nothing close to the truth. No matter how distressed Aziraphale himself was, with something as serious as this, he’d still go to Crowley first – to get his own corporation back at the very least, if not to let the demon know he was okay.

Crowley rang the bookshop anyway, just in case. There was no answer.

_Come on, Aziraphale. Where the Heaven – well, Hell – are you?_

\-----

The cell door clanged shut on Aziraphale in Crowley’s corporation, locking him into the deepest pit of Hell. To be fair, it was a lot nicer than the word ‘pit’ suggested – there was at least _some_ light to see by, and even if it was a bit damp and musty-smelling, at least he hadn’t actually been bodily thrown down a hole to rot, like he thought might happen.

The two guards from the trial were stationed outside, one either side of the cell door. They were stood a few feet away from the bars, so even if Aziraphale had reached Crowley’s long, lanky arms through the gaps, he couldn’t have touched them. No chance of recklessly attacking either of them, then.

They were watching him, too. Presumably to make sure he didn’t try anything unexpected to escape, but it also had the effect of making Aziraphale hyper-aware of himself and therefore very nervous. He used Crowley’s face to scowl, and turned his back on the cell door.

_Now what? How in Hell am I going to get out of – well, Hell._

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he stood there, motionless and staring at a wall. But it was significantly less time than he had expected before he heard a noise in the corridor outside.

“Uh, sir, you’re not allowed down here.”

“Yeah, Lord Beelzebub said –”

“I don’t care what they said,” a harsh voice spat. _Hastur._

The newcomer’s angry voice shook the dungeon’s slime-coated walls as he argued with the guards outside. Aziraphale didn’t turn around, waiting for the conflict to resolve before he decided what to do.

“I am a Duke of Hell –”

“Yes, your Hellishness, we know, but the Prince –”

“And I've got _this_!”

The two guards gasped and clattered against the door to the cell. It sounded like they’d stumbled backwards in fear, their helmets knocking against the bars with an echoing metallic clang.

“Now get out of my way,” Hastur continued, his voice low and dangerous.

Aziraphale still refused to look, but he could hear a scrambling sound that made him picture the pair of guards edging away along the wall beside the cell door.

“Key.”

A clink of metal as the demanded item changed hands.

“Go.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the guards muttered, and then two sets of pounding feet could be heard making their way out up the corridor, away from this place as fast as possible.

There was silence for a moment. Aziraphale breathed deeply and clenched his fists at his sides for a moment. _Be Crowley. Be cool. Be brave._

He turned around. “Oh hi, Hastur, didn’t notice you there. How’s it going?”

“Better now I have this here.” The demon held up a shining silver dagger, gripped tight in a white-gloved fist. The threat was accentuated by a repulsive smile that curled his white lips away from filthy teeth, and Aziraphale instantly lost whatever faint hope he’d had that the stranger would be Crowley, somehow disguised as another demon and sneaking into Hell to rescue him. _Oh, Crowley. I’m so sorry, my dear._

He let none of this show through on Crowley’s face. “Ooh, nice,” he said instead, sarcastically pretending to admire the holy weapon. “Does Beelzebub know you’ve stolen their most valuable asset in the war against Heaven?”

Hastur snarled, but looked a little uncomfortable. “No,” he bit out. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re going to be tortured anyway. Why wait, I say.”

With that, the Duke of Hell lifted his other hand and dangled the newly-acquired key in the air.

Technically, Aziraphale didn’t need his corporation to have a beating heart to keep him going. Neither did Crowley. But that didn’t stop either of them from having one, and one that matched the humans’ in the way that it remained remarkably in sync with the current occupant’s emotions. Right now, the heart Aziraphale could feel beneath Crowley’s ribs was thundering.

Hastur held out the key towards the cell door. He paused, tilting his head slightly to one side. He grinned at Aziraphale. Then he slowly pushed the key into the lock.

_He’s taking his time,_ the angel in a demon’s corporation thought. _Is he scared of me, and putting it off? Or just trying to intimidate me? Because... if that’s the case... it may be working. Just a little bit._

The key twisted. The lock clicked. The seconds inched on, Hastur smiling creepily the whole time, Aziraphale schooling Crowley’s face to look unconcerned. The demon sneered, and gave the cell door a shove. It swung open, creaking in a very aesthetically-pleasing way.

“Are you ready, Crawley? I think you’re gonna like this. I really do.”

The Duke of Hell brandished his weapon and stepped forward into the cell. _If I can distract him, just for a second, I could grab the key and get past him and lock him in and –_

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Hastur carried on. “For a very long time. Even before you... you... _killed_ Ligur.” He spat this last bit out, taking another step forward as he did so. “I never liked you, Crawley. I always thought you couldn’t be trusted. And now I know it’s true. _Traitor_.”

Aziraphale’s mind was racing, trying to think of a way to trick Hastur, a way to wrestle the dagger off him, or trap him in the cell. A million possibilities crowded the angel’s mind, but he knew he’d only have one chance for a surprise attack.

Crowley’s corporation took a step backwards and sideways, leaning one elbow casually against the wall in an attempt to look as relaxed and not-scared as possible.  
A little way off, muffled by the walls of the cell, a small commotion started up. Hastur’s face twitched. _Ah, a distraction. Perfect. And it’s coming this way._

“You might want to wait a moment, mate,” Aziraphale said through Crowley’s mouth, quirking a small smile, as if he knew what might be coming down the corridor. “Sounds like someone’s got something to tell you. Something rather...” he paused, and yes, those were running footfalls, quite a few of them. “Rather urgent, by the sounds of it.”

Hastur scowled, but didn’t look away. He pointed the silver dagger at the prisoner.

_How does that character that Crowley likes do it? James, that’s it. He can disarm someone of a knife, I’m sure he can. Oh, I should have read the book Crowley got me, it probably would have explained it in there! But I’m still so far behind! Humans have written so much, and I was going to get to it when I reached the right decade in my reading..._

_No. Stop. Focus, you silly angel. Be more Crowley. Be more James Bond._

Aziraphale was saved from having to improvise a dagger-stealing defensive technique and risking messing it up royally by the arrival of several identical demons outside the cell.

“Duke Hastur, sir,” one of them piped up. “You, uh... Beelzebub commands you to step away from the prisoner.”

“They said I could go first,” Hastur snapped, not looking away from his quarry. “So I am. And I want this first session to be private. Go away!”

“Please, sir. It’s important.”

The first demon made the mistake of stepping into the cell to better gain the Duke’s full attention. Hastur growled at the intrusion and turned, plunging the dagger deep into the demon’s chest.

The scream that ripped from the unfortunate demon was, quite predictably, unholy. He staggered backwards into the arms of his identical siblings as Hastur tore the holy weapon away, grinning with relish.

It was all too quick for Aziraphale to react to, and once it had happened he found himself frozen to the spot. _What...?_

Hastur held up the silver blade with interest, inspecting it as the still-screaming demon was dragged away by two others, the evidence of his pain echoing down the corridor.

“Duke Hastur,” another of the demons began, stepping only so far as the cell’s threshold this time. “I do understand the situation, but you really need to –”

The silver dagger swiped through the air again to the sound of a cackle, and the next demon dropped backwards, caught by two more. This time there wasn’t so much screaming as _gurgling_ , and Aziraphale leant Crowley’s corporation sideways to look around Hastur and see why – then promptly wished he hadn’t.

The demon with the slashed throat was similarly hauled away down the corridor, the screams of his predecessor still audible through the halls of Hell. Somehow, there was still a small crowd of identical demons just outside the entrance to the cell.

“Please, sir,” the next one said, this time refusing to move into range of Hastur’s swing. “It is really, _really_ important. I wouldn’t be disturbing you like this if it wasn’t.”

Hastur took a step forward, and the crowd of demons immediately scattered backwards, leaving the speaker stood alone, bravely (or out of utter terror) rooted to the spot.

The Duke of Hell growled in frustration, then deigned to at least listen. “What is it?”

The demon swallowed. “It’s, er, private information. Not for the prisoner to hear.” He gestured vaguely at Aziraphale. “Delicate stuff.”

Hastur stared at him for a moment, his gloved hand twitching as though he would like nothing more than to attack this demon, too. Then he swore loudly and shoved the demon aside with his dagger arm, marching out of the cell.

The little crowd ushered the Duke further up the corridor, out of earshot of the cell. The remaining demon, rubbing his burnt arm where the holy weapon had glanced off him, gave Crowley a tight smile, with Aziraphale received with a little confusion. The demon left the cell and locked it behind him, taking the key with him and unwillingly shuffling up the corridor towards the rest of the group.

_What just happened?_

He wasn’t so much questioning the reason he had suddenly been saved from Hastur’s (complete lack of) mercy. It was more the painful effort it had taken on the part of those delivering the message.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale wasn’t aware of the horrors that being a member of Hell meant, but it was certainly something new being subjected to such an intense display of utter, unnecessary violence. The angel found himself wondering, with an increasingly high level of personal concern, how much damage those weapons could actually do to a celestial being without killing them.

He realised belatedly that he should probably be trying to eavesdrop the information that had saved him, temporarily, from Hastur and his stolen dagger. He pushed Crowley’s corporation towards the cell door and held himself flat against the wall, straining to hear.

There was a certain amount of covert muttering going on, all of it apparently from the disposable demons. Aziraphale couldn’t quite catch any of it, only that it sounded intense and urgent.

After a moment, there was a silence. Then, Hastur’s voice, gravelly in the way that a body dragged down a garden path is, spoke at normal volume.

“Immune. To hellfire.”

“Yes, sir. Saw it myself.”

Another demon said something in a hushed, rapid tone that was presumably along the lines of ‘and now we’re concerned that Crowley might be immune too, and if that’s the case, the weapons won’t hurt him, and also we don’t particularly want him to know about his own immunity if he doesn’t already’.

There was another silence. Then a yelp of pain.

Aziraphale dared a look through the bars, and craned round to see all but one of the demons stood at least five feet away from Hastur, out of dagger range. The unfortunate one who hadn’t quite gotten away in time was clutching his arm, where the Duke of Hell had apparently just stabbed him.

The angel watched as Hastur bellowed a string of less-than-imaginative expletives then turned and stormed off. Those left behind all looked at each other for a moment, then glanced down the corridor at Aziraphale. Spotted, he leaned into his character again, and stuck an arm through the bars to cheerily wave at the terrified demons, who all promptly turned and fled.

_Well, that was... a thing._

The corridor was now deserted. The deepest pit of Hell was silent, unguarded, and still.

_Right, then. I suppose now would be the time to make my escape._

Aziraphale looked around the cell properly for the first time, somehow hoping for a convenient weakness he could use to his advantage – or barring that, at least something that could give him a good idea. There was nothing there, though – even less than in a human cell. At least when he’d been locked up in the Bastille there had been somewhere to sit.

_Hmm. The Bastille. I don’t suppose..._

He tried to miracle the locked door to the cell open. Nothing happened.

_No, well, of course it wouldn’t, you silly angel. What would be the point of a prison in Hell if you couldn’t prevent the occupants from doing something as simple as that?_ He was slightly surprised that it locked against angels too, though. _Whichever demon built it must have been fairly optimistic._

Next he wondered if any miracles at all would work down here. He attempted to produce a handkerchief, and one appeared in his hand with a flourish. _Well, then._

It was simple after that, really. He moved over to the door of the cell and felt around at the lock, trying to see its general shape and size. _Oh good, yes, just as I’d hoped. Ordinary. They made it so that miracles can’t open it, but didn’t think to protect it from something so... simple. So human._

He miracled himself a set of lockpicks and reached through the bars of the cell to get at the lock. It was an awkward angle, and took longer than it might have done otherwise, [2] but eventually there was a soft click and the angel was able to slowly, carefully push the door open without attracting any attention.

Not that there was anyone to attract attention from. This section of Hell was now, very noticeably, entirely empty.

_Makes a change from the usual crush of people, I suppose. How I’m going to be able to get past_ them _without anyone recognising Crowley, though, I’m not quite sure._

He turned again to his encyclopaedic knowledge of literature for a clue, but for some reason the only thing his mind landed on was a Greek myth.

_Never did like that ending, did I, my dear? Well then, I suppose I should re-write it._

_Come on, Eurydice. Let’s get out of here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 Aziraphale had become rather adept at lock picking during the Second World War. The front lines never particularly appealed to him, despite him having been made to be a soldier – but then technically he wasn’t supposed to fight for anyone except the army of Heaven, [3] so that was alright. He did still want to help, though. Which is why he eventually found himself in a rather sticky situation in a church. And why he had learned to pick any lock in under a minute, no miracles necessary. There was just something satisfying about doing things the human way sometimes. And no matter that it was a skill that never came up at the time and would shortly be obsolete – right now, right this very moment, it was ‘jolly helpful’, as Bill would say. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Notwithstanding occasional direct orders to the contrary. It had been good to wield a sword again under Arthur. Not that he used it much – it was mainly for show, him being one of the more diplomatic of the knights – but it was good to get some training in now and again, and he’d been a few millennia out of practice by that point. [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**
> 
> If you like Orpheus/Eurydice comparisons in relation to Good Omens, _please I am begging you_ read drawlight’s fantastic fic [‘and tell me who is victor’](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814809/chapters/49476608). It’s canon-compliant for the TV show (though it may not look like it at first), and absolutely incredible. I love the story for a million reasons, and one of them is the beautiful retelling of Eurydice’s side of the story. Go read it.


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